a hole in it, but you may have it, and
then you can get yourself something to eat in the village."

She dashed forward with the coin, eluding a movement of Miss Vane's hand
designed to stop her in her course. The shilling lay in Jenny Westwood's
grimy little hand before the lady could interfere.

"Don't take it away," Hubert whispered in his aunt's ear; "it will only
make her remember the scene for a longer time."

"I know," Miss Vane answered grimly; and she stood still.

Enid turned sorrowfully, half ashamed of her momentary rebellion,
towards the park gate. The other child seemed dazed by the excitement of
the speakers, and only half understood what had been going on. She stood
looking first at the coin in her hand and then at the donor, with a
strange questioning expression on her little brown face. Miss Vane and
Hubert also waited in silence, until Enid was out of hearing. Then, as
if by the same instinct, each drew a long breath and looked doubtfully
at the other and then at the child.

"You will miss your train," said Miss Leonora.

"I have done that already; so we may as well find out what brings the
girl here. Why not take her inside the park gates? If any one passes
by----"

"You are right, Hubert, as usual. Come here, child--come inside for a
minute or two; I want to speak to you."

The little girl glanced doubtfully at Miss Vane's handsome imperious
face. She seemed inclined to break away from her questioners and run
down the road; but a look from under her long lashes at Hubert seemed to
reassure her. The young man's face had certainly an attractive
quality--there was some sort of passion and pain in it, some mark of a
great struggle which had not been all ignoble; even if he had failed to
win the victory, a look which worked its way into the hearts of many who
would have refused their hands to him in sign of fellowship if they had
known the whole story of his life. This subtle charm had its influence
on little Jenny Westwood, although she had no suspicion of its cause.
She moved a little closer to him, and followed him inside the iron gates
of Beechfield Park. The great trees flung their shade over the broad
drive which ran between mossy banks for a mile before the house was
reached. Between their trunks the sunshine flickered on sheets of
bracken, already turning a little yellow from the heat; the straight
spikes of the foxglove, not yet in bloom, were visible here and there
amongst the undulati